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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159083">THE ROT: A medieval horror story</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellsinterlinked/pseuds/cellsinterlinked'>cellsinterlinked</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Horror, Fantasy, Historical, Horror, Inspired by The Witcher, One Shot, Short One Shot, Swordfighting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:01:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,237</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159083</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellsinterlinked/pseuds/cellsinterlinked</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Scorn is a Royal Agent, sent to receive a mysterious small black chest left in the wake of a battle. A very reserved mission for a man of his experience. But soon, Scorn realises this mission poses far greater threat than could have imagined.</p><p>A short medieval horror story, vaguely inspired by Mandy, Resident Evil 7, and The Witcher.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>THE ROT: A medieval horror story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This short story was originally published in 2018 in the self-published horror anthology Dark Destinations: An Anthology Of Terror, under the name Kurt Marlow.</p><p>Not my best, but there were a lot of elements I liked and I figured I might as well post it here.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The young farmer was minding his own merry business, tending to his hay just in front of his cows, when the he heard the clanking of the agent’s armour and the galloping of his steed. Speaking to the King’s agents made him nervous, but he knew that he should just do as they say if he wanted to avoid trouble. He looked up as the agent approached on his horse.<br/>
“Sir?” he asked. The agent wore the standard armour of the Royal Battalion, including a dented chest piece, thick gauntlets, and the orange Battalion Armband, depicting the King’s coat of arms. He had a satchel around him but he wore no helmet, revealing his thin, bearded face to the farmer. The thing that intimidated the farmer the most was the the hilt of the agent’s sword protruding from its scabbard, slung behind his back, ready for duty. Agents were different to the King’s knights in that though they were not expected to go into battle as much, they were still trusted with various missions from the King, and as a result were given more authority, as well as their own weaponry, which of course they were heavily trained in.<br/>
“My name is Scorn. I have been sent by the King on a search. I’m looking for the Morgan field. Where the battle was.”<br/>
“You’ve certainly come to the right place sir, the battle is known too well by the locals.” The farmer flung his arm, pointing behind him, to his right. “You just wander on over there and you can’t miss it. There still be patches of black where the fires broke out. I’m sure you know what anywhere looks like after a savage battle.” The agent gave a knowing nod.<br/>
“Aye. I give thanks.” Scorn’s voice was composed and direct. But even the farmer knew this was an act, something forced by the King to give his soldiers more authority amongst his subjects. Scorn yanked the reins, guiding his horse along past the farmer, who watched him go. He was nervous around the King’s agents, but he still felt a sense of awe around them.</p><p>Black it indeed was, like the farmer described. What he chose to leave out, it seems, was the bodies, charred black as the fields themselves, their burnt bodies still inside their armour. This would be the closest they would get to a coffin. Scorn raised his scarf over his mouth and nose. It had been about a week since the battle, but the nauseating smell of burnt flesh was now perpetually haunting the field. He rode his horse at a gentle pace past the carnage, keeping an eye out for his mission. He had been informed that the item in question would be in enemy hands. Though the flags and garments which communicated allegiances were mostly charred, the unique shapes of the enemy’s weapons and armour did not, allowing Scorn to narrow down his search. He wandered and searched, but up and down the field he could not find it. Maybe, he wondered, if this object was so important, it was likely they would do anything to keep it from our reach. Perhaps the core battlefield is indeed the most foolish place to keep it, and so the most foolish place to look. He set his sights up, scanning the fields around him. There was very little to remark upon, except for a few scant trees, just beyond where the blood was spilt. He guided his horse towards them.<br/>
As he approached them, Scorn could make out shoulders and arms on the other side, belonging to a body leaning against the trunk. As he rode around the tree, he shuddered at the sight of an enemy soldier, its armour drenched in blood from his open neck, where his head once was. Scorn unmounted his steed and approached the ill-fated adversary. Just another victim, he thought. That was until he noticed something next to his leg. Small, and black. He knelt down, picking it up. A small wooden chest, only bigger than his fist, black with swirling engravings carved in. Just like the one that was described to him. This must be it. <br/>
He looked about. There was no soul to watch him as he tried to open the chest. He stuck his two thumbs within its lips and attempted to pry it open, with no luck. Frustrating, he thought, but perhaps for the best. He would bring it to the King and receive his bountiful reward, and he would hate to do anything that would jeopardise that.</p><p>The journey to the Morgan field had only taken him a few days. His quest completed, he decided to stay the night before making his way back. He made his way back to the farm, where the young farmer pointed him towards a reputable tavern. He hitched his horse outside and pondered for a moment, before taking the black chest out of the saddle and into his satchel. Better to be safe than sorry indeed.<br/>
He stepped into the dimly candle-lit tavern, and the few scattered patrons looked up, momentarily ending their conversations. Scorn looked back at them with a blank face. This was a typical reaction of locals to a King’s agent, largely because the locals did not want to risk starting any trouble with one. Scorn moved to the counter, where the innkeeper pretended to check his ledgers. Slowly, everyone resumed their talking and drinking.<br/>
“Are you the owner of this here tavern?” The keeper looked up.<br/>
“Sir, I am.”<br/>
“I would request three things tonight. Beer, food, and a room for the one night.” <br/>
The keeper nodded.<br/>
“Aye sir. It would be about six coins.” Scorn reached into his satchel and produced the amount. “I would have one request sir, as the keeper of this establishment.”<br/>
“Indeed you do. Name it.” The keeper hesitated, but spoke nonetheless.<br/>
“That sword sir, I would prefer you to take it off and put it aside. There is no threat here.”<br/>
Scorn observed the keeper, who looked perhaps like he regretted making the request. He reached up and wrapped his hand around the hilt, but did not move it further. When he spoke, he did not break eye contact.<br/>
“I will be the judge of that. Is that quite understood?” The keeper nodded, and swallowed.</p><p>Scorn was not himself an expert on cookery or brewery, but he knew that inadequate food or drink did not help his mood. The beer was passable but thin like water, and the pie’s mixture of steak and onion had a soft, slightly cold texture, as if undercooked. All the same, he knew this would be the only food for miles, and so he kept eating. He reached for his satchel to take it off. He felt it, noting the lightness. He looked inside. The black chest was gone. He clenched his fist, and slammed it on the table, shaking his beer-filled tankard and stealing everyone’s attention once more. He shot up from his chair.<br/>
“Who has stolen my black chest?” There was no answer, only wary eyes. “I arrived here with a small black chest in my satchel, and it is now disappeared. Therefore, I can surmise that one of you must have stolen it.” Again, no-one responded. He began to pace the tavern. “One of you has misplaced your courage. It is not brave or noteworthy to steal from an agent, but incredibly foolish. Surrender yourself and the chest to me at once.” He observed several patrons as he walked around the tavern, scouting for tell-tale signs of their guilt. He gave the keeper a heavy look.<br/>
“You advised me that there is no threat. Yet, someone has stolen from me, has infringed upon my property. Is that not a threat?” The keeper said nothing, and Scorn continued. “If bandits came her tonight with the intention of ransacking this place of yours, would you not feel threatened? Answer me man!”<br/>
“Yes, yes sir, I would,” said the keeper, humiliated. “But I am sure there is no bandit here tonight, just a trickster.”<br/>
“A trickster! Well then, what is the trick? Sleight of hand?” Scorn again scanned the patrons. One of them turned away, focussing on his beer.<br/>
An obvious tell if Scorn ever saw one.<br/>
He walked to the patron in large, quick strides, standing over him, imposed.<br/>
“You there, hiding away? Have you anything to declare?” The patron kept his head down, looking right at the woodwork of his table.<br/>
“I-I don’t want no trouble sir. I have not stolen nothing.”<br/>
“Do you know what the irony is?” asked Scorn, his voice lowering to a close whisper.<br/>
“N-no sir?”<br/>
“Your conscience betrays you. Your deeds haunt you. As an agent of the King, allow me to help you repent.” And with that, Scorn grabbed the hilt and yanked his sword out. He swung it, and held it under the patron’s chin.<br/>
“This would be an excellent time to reconsider your actions, peasant.” The patron was visibly sweating now, shaking, holding his head up.<br/>
“Sir, please, I’m no thief-”<br/>
“Your lies offend me. Where is the bloody chest?” The peasant’s breath struggled through gritted teeth. “Where?” snarled Scorn. The patron gripped the table, shaking it as well, as Scorn’s blade slid closer to the neck.<br/>
“Sir?” Scorn turned to face another, older patron.<br/>
“What is it? Do you wish to defend this criminal?”<br/>
“Your… your black chest… is it that one?”<br/>
Scorn looked back at his table. Next to his plate, small and black with swirling engravings, was indeed the chest. Scorn looked at the nervous, sweating peasant, and let go. He sheathed his sword, sat back down, and picked up the chest, examining it, before examining the spot where it sat. Was his eyesight that poor? He looked around. No-one was trying to hide their staring. Lowering his head, he put the chest back in the satchel, grabbed his tankard, and approached the keeper.<br/>
“Would you show me to my room, please?”<br/>
Without a word, the keeper opened a drawer and picked out a key. He opened the door to let himself out behind the counter, and unlocked another door which led to a flight of stairs. <br/>
“This way, sir.” He climbed up the stairs, and Scorn followed close behind.</p><p>Scorn departed early in the morning without so much as a farewell, or a sound for that matter. He fed oats to his horse, unhitched it, and took off down the path back south. He had checked his satchel numerous times since he woke up, at times even keeping his hand firmly on the shape of the chest. He could not risk another episode like the night before, and furthermore, he could not risk losing his reward, and furthermore, he absolutely could not risk failing the King, for he did not want to meet the same end as the headless soldier he had encountered by the tree.<br/>
As it often did on these journeys, the day passed unremarkably. The sun came, its light muted by a thick sheet of overcast cloud, and was on its way out. At least it wasn’t raining. Scorn checked the satchel once more. The chest was still there.</p><p>He knew the country roads fairly well. Despite their twists and turns, he had become somewhat familiar with the terrain, part of the reason why he was entrusted with this task. So when he arrived at the fork in the road which would lead back to the south, he did not go right away. He knew that just a little further down the eastern path, there was a stream, known for its cleanliness. It would not cost him much time at all, and he desperately craved an opportunity to wash his face and drink, as he was sure his horse did too. He whipped the reins, guiding his steed away from the known path, onto the westward one.<br/>
It had been a while since Scorn had travelled this way, and he struggled as he tried to piece together the road ahead in his mind. The leaves had turned red and fallen, covering most of the beaten path as his horse crunched them beneath his hooves. The branches were naked, but there were plenty, more than Scorn could have realised, enough to almost hinder the light from above. The tree along this passage, he reasoned, must be bolstered from the water. He grew thirstier at the thought. He checked his satchel. The chest was still there.</p><p>Scorn let himself be guided by the sound of rushing water as he got closer. He reached the stream and got off, leading his horse further towards the water. It dunked its mouth in and drank vigorously. Scorn watched the water flow from further on up. He followed it down, watching it go, and go, and it kept on going. He let his mind drift off as his eyes became lost in the abstract silver of the water.<br/>
He knelt down, removed his gauntlets, cupped his hands, and scooped some water out, sipping it. He drank a few more scoops, before splashing his face, wiping it dry with his sleeve. The air was cold on his damp face and fingers, almost bitingly so. Even then, it was a feeling he was happy to indulge in every once in a while. He picked up his gauntlets and put them on, holding them still one at a time as he shoved his hands further in. He looked at his horse, still drinking merrily.<br/>
“Finish up, boy. We’ve a journey to get on with.” The creature raised it’s head up. Scorn had had this horse for a few years now, and had appeared to develop a bond of the mind with it, as it understood its master’s intentions, sometimes before the master knew them himself. Scorn had never bothered to give it a name, because for the longest time in his mind, horses were just creatures of service, and he had no use to name them. When it occurred to him that he had used the same horse for some time now, he had no ideas about a name. So the horse remained nameless. Before mounting, he pulled his chest piece up for ease, pushing his satchel behind him. Then he stopped.<br/>
The satchel was lighter this time.<br/>
He looked in. He could see his coins, his rag for polishing equipment, and his herbs for healing, should the occasion necessitate it. But no chest. He looked about, already frantic. He had it just a few minutes ago, before he arrived at the stream. Had someone managed to pickpocket him? Unlikely, yet the emptiness within the satchel suggested otherwise. Had it fallen out? It was, somehow, entirely possible. He caressed the horse’s neck.<br/>
“Stay,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.” He wandered back down the path, crunching the leaves under him as his horse had done. As he walked, he kicked them about, just in case the chest had hidden itself underneath them. Again, unlikely, but he was not in the mood to be lazy. He observed every possible inch of grass and soil in front of him. It boggled him how this could have happened. Did it fall into the stream maybe? No, no he would have seen it. He decided to keep searching. It had not been ten minutes since he stopped to drink, but already the path was darker than before, the branches more imposing, impeding his search. <br/>
Somewhere, leaves rustled. Scorn turned to face the noise, somewhat jittery from the anxiety. The forest presented itself as it was, no persons or small critters, just a small tree with a thin trunk lay in front. His first thought was the wind playing tricks. His second thought was to not be so infantile. He walked softly towards the sapling, hand on hilt, prepared for the worst. He turned around the tree.<br/>
The chest sat next to it, obvious amongst the leaves, leaving Scorn perplexed. Did someone snatch it and decide against the petty and dangerous act of theft from an agent? Did ants carry it away? He could not have dropped it in such a hidden place.<br/>
He gave it no more thought, and bent over to snatch the chest. He walked back to his horse, his fingers gripping the chest tightly, out of safety and out of anger.<br/>
“Infernal thing,” he said to himself. “Would you be alive so you could feel my contempt.” His grip became tighter around it, practically choking it, and he could feel it pressing into his palm, his fingertips digging into it, slowly…<br/>
He looked down at the box in his palm. His fingers were indeed falling into the wood of the chest, as if it had transformed into clay. What sight was this? He pulled his fingers out, or tried to, but they remained stuck inside the newly formed impressions. He shook his hand, trying to throw the chest down, but it remained a fixture of his gauntlet. The shape of the chest itself began to morph, almost melt, its black metal lock turning into tar, Scorn tried to fling it harder but the chest melted directly onto the gauntlet. He reached over with his free hand, grabbed the gauntlet and pushed it off, throwing it behind him. It hit the leaves below, but the tarry liquid was already disregarding the vestiges of its shape and climbing up the gauntlet. It appeared to expand, completely enveloping, consuming the agent’s old glove. Scorn watched as the blackened gauntlet lost its shape, now getting smaller, as if there was nary such an item in the first place. By some flying reflex, Scorn reached for his sword and swung it right down, splitting the substance in half. He pulled at his sword. He had swung with such force it had become implanted in the ground. He pulled his weapon out, readying for the next stroke… and found a black chest with engravings, its wooden exterior split in half.<br/>
He blinked and shook his head. What in damnation just happened? He lowered his sword and poked the two ends with the end of the blade, moving them about, yet they did not react. He picked up one of the broken ends and looked inside. There were no contents, except for the wood itself, which on the inside appeared to be rotting, black and bumpy, with some fungal growth. Scorn could not believe it. The King himself had sent him on this mission, sent him up north, just to retrieve a rotting chest. No treasure, no letters, not even any enemy secrets.<br/>
The other end of the chest stirred. Scorn looked and blinked. Another hallucination? One of it’s splintered ends softened and extended slightly, like a finger-thin tentacle. Like a lizard’s tongue, it flicked and extended, attaching itself to its missing half in Scorn’s hand. The gooey bridge between the two pieces grew thicker, and more splintered ends also flicked, attaching themselves. Scorn dropped the piece onto the ground as if it had caught fire and stood up, backing away.<br/>
“Damn you! Damn you!” The two pieces pulled themselves together, healing the splinters as if it had never broken at all. Whatever it was, it resembled a black chest once more, but it only held the form for seconds, before melting apart. Scorn took further steps back. He knew he should have been running, but he had never seen anything of the like. The melted creature begin to reveal its interior rot as it came to the surface. It soon collected itself, drops of its own being climbing upon each other, growing taller. The creature, almost all goo and tar and rot, moved in a free and uncontrolled manner, as if liquid but not constrained by force of gravity, yet its composure was clearly thick. Scorn brandished his sword. But he looked at it, and back to the creature. He knew there was no choice, and he turned and ran back towards his horse, desperately fighting against the weight of his armour. His horse was moving towards him, ready to pick up his master. Scorn set a foot on the mount, but the steed neighed and began to shake, agitated at the sight of the danger, delaying his master’s mounting.<br/>
“Still, be still!” But he stared back at the path. The rot attached itself to one of the trees, twisting around it and to the top, flicking itself to attach to another branch, transferring itself across and soon it was moving across the crowded, intricate treetops with an unnatural speed. The anxiety of the sight caused Scorn to falter, and as he pushed himself up the horse, he slid back down, falling to his back. There was no time to waste. <br/>
“Follow me!” he said to his horse as he scurried up and ran, splashing past the stream, the horse galloping just behind him. It stopped short, and a loud, troubled neigh forced Scorn to look back.<br/>
The formless rotting creature slid towards the end of a thin branch and attached itself to the horse’s rear legs, twisting around them, slowing him to a stop in his tracks as if held still by locks.<br/>
“Run, run!” Scorn pleaded at the top of his lungs, but to his horror it was no use. The horse dug its front hooves into the soil, trying to push itself free, but in doing so only lost its balance and fell over. The rot expanded over the nag as it whimpered, presumably to beg for its life in a tongue no other nearby creature could understand, not even its master. One strand of the rot climbed up its back, over its neck, and quickly engulfed the head. The front hooves flailed about as it suffocated, pointlessly trying to break free. Its suffering ended only when the rot pulled upward with enough force to break its head off with a clear crunch of the bones splitting inside. As the rot consumed the horse’s body, the makeshift tentacle gripping the head tossed it aside, again with such strength, and it splattered against a large trunk.<br/>
Scorn didn’t scream. But he was in pain. Pain that grew into incandescence. <br/>
“You will not survive this,” he whispered. The rot, now done with the horse, scurried along the ground towards Scorn. He lifted his sword with both hands. The rot grappled onto a trunk, splitting and coasting across the branches up top. Scorn strafed away, keeping his eyes on his formless enemy. The rot flung itself down, and arched up, widening as it shoved itself towards the agent. Scorn saw no reason to hesitate and lunged, slashing right through the thick tar of the rot, sending its top half splattering down to its side. He forced another slash right down the middle, seemingly weakening the monster’s composition as it melted to the floor. Scorn was used to a battle, but never had he exerted such effort. He let the tip of his sword fall to the ground, dragging it as he took a step back, recouping deep breaths.<br/>
Then the blackness moved, shifting across the dirt, the parts circling each other before joining in the middle. The form was once again rising, droplets of black slime sliding up upon each other, some dripping down to the floor before rejoining the main cluster. Scorn could only glare, his jaw hanging freely.<br/>
“What are you?” His mind was torn between pure volatile fear and fiery rage. “What damn thing are you? What do you want?” The rot did not respond, but allowed itself to lean in closer. <br/>
“You will not have me,” he declared. “I am Scorn, and I will not be claimed!” He thrust his sword straight into the moulding black, driving it further in as he screamed, summoning strength from the darkest pits of his rage.<br/>
“See what you bring upon yourself?” He drove it further in, praying in his mind for the satisfaction of watching the creature bleed. Though it did no such thing, more drops seemed to fall loose. Scorn pulled the sword out, and halfway through it stopped, jammed. He pulled harder, but the rot pulled back, pulling him too, his heels digging up the soil as he resisted. The ‘neck’ of the beast rose, and with a sudden sharp twist of its head, snapped the end of the blade off, sending Scorn tripping backwards. He sat up and raised his sword to examine it. The break was clean, perfect, leaving his weapon halved and redundant. Almost redundant. He stood himself up and flipped the sword in his hand, now brandishing it like a large dagger. The long head of the rot floated close to him, leaving its main body just behind. Scorn focussed on it, calculating. He resumed a ready stance, strafing the thing before him once more. Just a little closer, he thought.<br/>
The rot drifted ever closer. All he would need is a few inches more...<br/>
Now! He jumped, broken sword held high before he drove it into the rot’s makeshift neck, twisting the blade as he dug it in. More drops fell off, its structure getting noticeably weaker.<br/>
“Do you feel it now?” Scorn was deriving much satisfaction from the sight. The drops quickly reattached themselves to the main body, and before he could react, blackness began to consume the sword. He let go, but the rot jumped onto his arm, quickly expanding to wrap around his hand. Before he knew it, he was held, stuck. He tried to pry his arm away, but there was no gauntlet to break free from. His flailing grew desperate, frantic as they thick moist black climbed up his arm, engulfing it. <br/>
“Stop. Please don’t, I’m begging you!” His request, spoken in a near hysteria, was sincere. The rot stopped just short of his body. Time stood still for Scorn. He waited a moment.<br/>
“Will you let me go?” The form stayed unmoving and quiet. “I will go, disappear. I will not surrender you to anyone. You need not kill me.” He waited for a response.<br/>
First came the squelching, then the crunching, then the unspeakable agony as his right arm was ripped right off, strands of flesh connecting the limb to the shoulder thinning out before snapping, as messy as his horse’s demise. He had no energy to scream as the blood fell right out and he fell to his knees. His vision doubled and blurred, even becoming obscured as his brain tried to cope with the loss. He could make out his arm being consumed whole by the rot’s extended form as it retreated into itself, diminishing, before growing wider and taller, like a black sheet. Scorn could recognise the threat, and using his remaining left arm, pushed himself up. <br/>
In its deliberate stillness, waiting, the rot mocked him, taunted him, waiting to give its prey a head start. His balance was decimated, but Scorn ran all the same, his legs guiding him all over the place. The one thought that reigned above all others right now was that he must not give in. He had to keep going, survive somehow.<br/>
The rot began to move forward, a combination of slithering and tripping upon itself before fluidly regaining a new composure. Parts of itself attached to near branches, flowing across the forest, letting itself grow bigger. Scorn kept running, struggling to recollect where he was, but he knew he could not look back, he mustn’t. He kept running, but every step stabbed his lungs as they too struggled for vitality. Just behind him he could hear all too well the wetness of the creature, sliming across the path and across the trees, suffocating his ears with its vicinity. He turned to look, for just a second.<br/>
He only caught a glimpse of the engulfing creature before his foot hit a large stone, tripping and accidentally thrusting his body forward over onto a downward slope. He rolled down over the dry leaves, down into a gully. He tried to orient himself, but the mess of overhead branches confused him. He tried to stand up, but by now the loss of blood was too much. He was weak, too weak. He stuck his hand into the dirt and tried to pull himself forward, his bloodied boots pushing him forward, but only inches. The rot climbed down from the tree and let itself roll into the gully, before regaining composure, slithering forward towards the agent pathetically attempting to escape. It widened itself, assuming the form of a long black sheet. The sheet raised itself, and lunged, wrapping itself around Scorn’s boot.<br/>
“I beg you…” he said, forcing the word out in a rasp. “I am done. Spare me this final pain.” But the blackness moved further up his leg. Through his clothes, he felt the cold moisture moving, tightening around it. He knew what was coming next, and the fear was almost as terrible as the pain to come.<br/>
His leg, claimed by the rot, began to bend outwards. He clenched his teeth and gripped the dirt, having no breath left to beg. His knee twisted, and split as the rot pushed it forward. Scorn could only gasp and struggle for breath. The rot moved tightened further and pulled back. Scorn’s attempts to pull himself forward only dragged the leaves back as his grip weakened. The rot wasted no time, and broke the rest of the leg off, twisting it halfway before ripping it off. Scorn’s hand dropped. The only energy he had left was in his throat, pushing the blood out over his bottom lip. The leg was long gone by now.<br/>
“What do you want with me? What do you want… damn creature…” The rot did not answer, but its end diminished, grew smaller. It nudged itself against the bloody stump where Scorn’s leg once was. Then it pushed, pushed harder, before inserting itself past the split bone and ripped muscle, into the open wound.<br/>
He could feel it. He felt the thickness of it moving up past his pancreas, flowing through his ribcage, followed by more of itself. He could feel himself becoming heavier, fuller.<br/>
“Spare me.” But the rot did not care. It moved further up, right up the neck. He began to feel it in his ears, his nose… behind his eyes. Pulling, pulling outwards. <br/>
A small crack formed on the top of his head. The crack opened further, opening right down the middle as it grew wider with a resounding crunching. Right down between his eyes, down his nose, and finally past his chin, the blackness pushing apart, splitting him from within, the two halves of his head connected only by the gooey rot. <br/>
Both parts of his head dropped, both parts of his now rotted brain plopping out. Black swirled over his eyes. The rot retreated out of his head, back down his neck and torso, and back out of the leg stump. It had taken everything inside him with it, leaving only the agent’s shell, his face now a split pale mask smeared in blood. Eyeholes with no eyes, a mouth with no tongue or throat. A body with no organs. The gully was quiet. The rot had disappeared. All there was to see besides Scorn’s gruesome fate was a black wooden chest, with swirling engravings carved into it.</p>
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